The World Within
by Sapphire at Dawn
Summary: A series of drabbles written for various challenges. Covering everything and anything, from Marauder Era to The Battle of Hogwarts.
1. Red and Gold

_**So this is the first in my series of drabbles. It's from the perspective of the girl Ginny is comforting in the Battle of Hogwarts. Enjoy and please review.**_

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You wave your parents goodbye from the window of the train, insisting everything is fine.

_Your head of house marshals you from your dormitory, you know something is wrong._

You and your friends find an empty compartment and sit down. They look at you tentatively, asking if everything is all right. You reassure them that it is.

_You're in the Great Hall, everyone looks frightened. The Dark Lord is on his way, they say, and Hogwarts is preparing to fight. A boy is shouting that he wants to stay and you applaud in agreement._

You stare out of the window at the countryside flashing by. It all seems a blur.

_You are standing, uniting against the Slytherin girl. Uniting against evil; it all seems so clear._

You don't really want to go back there, to the place where it all happened. You think to your ankle; it still twinges, even now.

_You are being ushered towards the Entrance Hall, part of the group that is to man the grounds against the oncoming Death Eaters._

The harsh rattle of the train against the tracks shakes your mind, clattering in your ears. You do not listen to your friends chatter. You can't.

_You stand watching, waiting, listening to the sounds of the intruders trying to force their way in. Suddenly, there is an almighty crash and a crumble of rocks as the wall is breached. It is time._

Your friends give up trying to engage you in conversation. They don't understand.

_You duck and dodge jets of red and green light, firing your own curses at the masked figures. One of them falls and you feel a triumphant sense of pride. You move onto another._

You want to explain to them, to tell them how you feel, but you know it is impossible. You are separate beings now.

_You are fighting, battling as hard as you can. Somebody points a wand at you, and you collapse in pain._

The country is wilder now, and you know that you are drawing closer. Closer to the alien castle that was once so familiar.

_You writhe and gasp, your bones are on fire as the Cruciatus Curse courses through you. Vaguely you feel something snap, but you pay no attention. Then, the pain stops, but you just lie there._

You feel sick as every heartbeat takes you closer.

_A girl is crouching over you, all the noise of battle is gone._

You finger the red and gold ribbons on your trunk, the colours of the brave and noble.

_You whimper over your broken ankle, and cry for home. You don't want to fight anymore. You want to run away; all your courage and valour is gone._

You tug at the ribbons, and they come off. You open the window slightly and hold them out, watching them flap desperately in the wind. You open your fingers and they are gone, cut to shreds beneath the wheels of the train. You do not belong in Gryffindor anymore.

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_**Up next: Draco and Pansy**_


	2. Unworthy

_**And this is the second. It's set in Draco and Pansy's sixth year. For this one I used third person omniescent for the first time and found it rather enjoyable. The word limit for this was 500 words, and the first draft turned out to be near 1500, and most of their dialogue got axed. I'll probably turn it into a one shot some time in the future.**_

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Draco Malfoy loosened his cloak; the weather was uncommonly warm for this time of year and the sunshine was beating down, making him sweat. Beside him, Pansy Parkinson was equally warm, though she had shrugged her cloak off as they turned from the main street.

They were headed to a spot a little way outside the village that Pansy had discovered last year, a spot that she liked to think of as 'theirs'. Although Draco didn't share her enthusiasm for the time they spent alone here, he put up with it for the sense of superiority it gave him over the other students. To him, she had only ever been a boost to his confidence, something to boast and brag about, but although she shared these feelings to a degree, they had always been accompanied by genuine affection for him, and it was this that made her put up with him when he was arrogant, or short tempered.

Today, Draco was neither of these things; he had not been himself for weeks now, and avoided company. Before, he had liked to sit in front of the fire in the evenings, hinting heavily about the Dark Lord, but now he withdrew to his dorm, or he simply wasn't present at all.

'What's the matter with you, Draco?' Pansy sighed in exasperation. They had reached the place now; a small meadow enclosed by rough stone walls.

Draco looked startled at her words and looked round to her, looking almost as if he were surprised to find himself in company.

'You haven't said a word since we left Hogsmeade. And you've been withdrawn lately. Is it –' she lowered her voice, 'something to do with him?'

Draco's head snapped around, angered by her presumption.

'Of course not!' he said, irritably. 'It's none of your business.'

'You know, it's almost like you don't care about the task he's given you!' she snapped, angered at his tone.

'You have no idea what I care about!' he shouted back, his anger rising at her ignorance. How could she know the stress he was under? 'You have no idea what it's like, trying to do what he wants. Your pathetic mind can't comprehend it! It's fucking impossible what he's set me to do! He's a bloody madman!'

Pansy backed away from him, scandalised. How could he say such things? But Draco didn't care. He had had enough; he didn't want her on his case as well. He knew he shouldn't have said those things, but it was too late, and he was too angry to care. He stood up and set off down the path they had just come up.

'You're a fuckinging disgrace to his name!' Pansy shouted after him. A Loyal servant, that's what he had referred to himself as, but Pansy knew he wasn't loyal anymore, not after what he had said. She knew that she could never trust him as that again, and that he would never be worthy of the Dark Lord.

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_**Up next, Severus Snape.**_


	3. Granddad

_**This was written as a Christmas present for someone who wanted a slightly D/A drabble about a Malfoy. Can you guess who this is?**_

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I'd heard the stories and rumours about you at Hogwarts, despite how much Mother and Father had tried to keep me from them. I knew what you had done, what you tried to do all those years ago.

I could never quite believe all that they said, though I supposed it must be true. To me, it all seemed so unlikely; you were always kind and doting on me when Mother or Father said no. You used to make me laugh when I was down, and comfort me when I was upset.

Standing now beside your freshly dug grave, I can hardly believe this has happened. I knew that it would; everyone has to die, and you had been so frail in recent years. There was only so much the Healers could do, you said.

The coffin is lowered into the ground, and my tears fall freely, like the rain around us. Whatever you had been, whatever you might have done, it didn't matter to me. You were my grandfather, and I loved you.


	4. The Journey

_**Another drabble, this time about Dean during his months on the run in Deathly Hallows. Enjoy. Please review if you read this.**_

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Trudge, trudge. One foot in front of the other through the snow. The road less travelled by, he thought poetically. He couldn't remember the poem, or who had wrote it, it was just a distant memory of someone, he didn't know who, speaking the lines in a vague, dreamy manner. Perhaps it was his mother, though she didn't really set much in store by poetry. Maybe it was his grandmother.

Dean didn't really know where he was going, he just kept walking, walking for something to do, anything to do. He couldn't remember how long he'd been on the run now. Was it two months, or three? All the days seemed to roll in to one. It was hard to distinguish one from the other, really. He slept in old barns or cattle byres by night, or even a hedge if he couldn't find one of those; he had lost his tent weeks ago. Or was it just days? Time didn't really mean much to him these days; it was hard to keep track. He merely slept when he was tired, ate when he was hungry, if he could.

At first, he'd stayed in the cities. He was familiar in an urban surrounding, it made him feel more at home, sleeping in cheap youth hostels or perhaps a homeless shelter, eating at greasy spoon cafes. But then he'd seen the Dementors. He couldn't remember where; Manchester, perhaps. Or Crawley. It could have even been Sedgefield; he travelled around a lot. He had tensed as he felt the chill creep through him and drain him of all feeling. He heard the boys from his old estate shouting at him in his head. _Go home, nigger! Take your slut of a mother with you!_ They had used to torment him on his way home from school. This was years before he had received his Hogwarts letter, back when his mother was working in the laundrette during the day and the local pub at night so she could pay their rent.

The Dementors reminded of all this, especially the time the bullies had cornered him in the stairwell of their tower block. He shook himself, he knew he couldn't fall into despair, but he was good at fighting despair these days. Life didn't hold much pleasure. Even the time when he'd stolen that bottle of vodka and drank it just for something to do. Stealing didn't bother him anymore. He had to do it to survive. He'd slept under the stars that night, too drunk to know he was cold. It was probably the first night he'd spent out of doors, the first night of many.

But after that encounter with the Dementors he'd left the towns behind. He'd stolen a tent from a market stall and took to the fields, Apparating up and down the country at random, spending nights in woods or on wide moors. Remote places. Once he'd slept on the top of a mountain somewhere in Wales. That was when his tent had blown away. He'd had to be a bit more careful after that; he didn't have much left in terms of gear; just a few pairs of boxers, two socks, a thick parka and a sleeping back all packed in the rucksack on his back. And his wand, of course.

Food was a bit of a problem. He'd learned that somehow he couldn't conjure food, he didn't know why. He wished he'd paid more attention in Transfiguration, now. Or was it Charms? School seemed very far off now. He stole his food mainly; hiding and summoning items from people's shopping bags as they left supermarkets, or from market stalls. Sometimes he even broke into Muggle houses to take a couple of tins and a loaf of bread. In these rural areas, they didn't seem to lock their doors often. Once, when he had been incredibly desperate, he'd killed a chicken he'd found wondering around a village and tried to roast it on a fire. He'd been sick after that and didn't try it again.

Dean sighed. He wondered what Seamus would think if he saw him breaking in to people's houses, or killing and roasting chickens. He pushed the thought out of his mind. Thinking about people was painful. Dangerous. He carried on trudging on his journey. His journey to God only knew where.


	5. Happy Halloween

**_This is another one from a Mugglenet challenge. The prompt was unhappy Halloween, to be set before 30th October, 1981_**

Argus Filch prayed fervently that morning before he got up. It was not something he usually did; his family was not particularly religious, but today, he had a wish that he urgently needed fulfilling.

Today was the 31st of October, Halloween, and thus Argus' birthday. His eleventh birthday, to be precise. Argus never really enjoyed his birthdays. Not anymore, anyway. He was painfully aware that for him, time was slowly ticking away with each passing year. And now, that final day had come.

He glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table. It was ten o'clock; much later than he usually rose. It was not birthday privilege that kept him abed so late, it was nerves. Nerves, tinged with hope. He knew that it would be far more painful roaming about the house and waiting, so he had forced himself to doze as late as he could manage, when, finally, he could stand it no longer. If there were to be any post today, it would have arrived by now. His elder brother's had definitely arrived early in the morning, Argus had made a note of it. _Today could be the day,_ he though. Today _had_ to be the day.

He crossed the bedroom that he shared with his brother. He was away at school now, but above his bed still hung the Hufflepuff banner. Argus averted his eyes, his stomach full of butterflies, and made his way down to the kitchen where his mother was manually scrubbing dishes, while the washing tub and mangle were hard at work in the corner.

'Good morning, Argus,' she said with a smile as he opened the door. 'Happy birthday.'

She abandoned her dishes, and swooped down on him, planting a kiss on his forehead.

Argus took a deep breath, aware that his whole body was quaking with trepidation. 'Has there been any post today, Mother?' he asked.

His mother looked down at him, her eyes full of anguish. She knew what this meant to him.

'I'm afraid not, sweeting.'

In those few words, Argus' hopes came crashing down around him. There was no letter. There would never be a letter. He knew he should have accepted the possibility a long time ago, but there was always something that made him keep on hoping. He looked down at his hands, as if the problem lay with them. He turned them over, inspecting them. They certainly didn't look any different from anyone else's. How foolish he had been, he though. How foolish to have any hope of expecting a letter. He had never shown any signs of magic, not one trace. To have his birthday fall on the day where wizards and witches were celebrated was the last humiliation.

Tears stinging his eyes, Argus turned away from his mother. He would never be able to go to Hogwarts, and he had been a fool to think he could.


	6. Final Goodbye

**_Two more from Mugglenet, from the same challenge. 'Write a drabble in which one character who died in the books comes back to speak with someone they left behind.'_**

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It was nine o'clock in the evening when Neville received the final, urgent message from St Mungo's. Neville was sat at the kitchen table, staring vacantly into the face of the pumpkin that sat on the work surface. All evening, Neville had been ignoring the timid knocks at the door from Muggle children out trick or treating; he wasn't in the mood for Halloween this year. The pumpkin was Hannah's attempt at keeping things normal, but Neville had half a mind to throw it into the fire.

'Mr Longbottom?'

Neville was instantly alert, his head whirling to the fireplace where the head of the on-call Healer was floating amid the flames.

'I'm afraid your mother has taken a turn for the worst,' the Healer said. 'You should be with her now.'

Neville leaped up, picked a pinch of Floo Powder, and stepped into the fire. The Healer was waiting for him at the other end.

'She slipped into a fitful sleep about an hour ago, and we haven't been able to rouse her since,' he said. 'She's peaceful now, but it won't be long.'

Neville nodded. They had approached the end of the ward now, and the familiar flowery curtains were drawn around one of the beds. He glanced at the space to his left where he knew the bed of his father lay. He could hear the snuffles of his sleep, and Neville felt a pang for the man who would never know that only a few metres away, his wife was dying.

In the end, it didn't take long. Perhaps an hour after Neville had arrived, Alice Longbottom slipped quietly from life with Neville holding her hand. After giving it one final squeeze, he set it down and stood up to go and find a Healer.

'Neville.'

Neville froze. He had never heard that voice before, but he knew who it belonged to. Slowly, he turned around, and came face to face with the ghost of his mother. She was standing there, in the long, white nightgown in which she'd died, but her face wasn't the face Neville had known. She was younger; her cheeks were full and her hair thick and glossy.

'Mum?' Neville said incredulously.

Alice Longbottom smiled, and in that smile was mirrored all the love, the sadness and the admiration that Neville felt.

'I wanted to see you before I go,' she said in a soft, warm voice. 'I was so determined. I had to tell you everything that I've not been able to since you were a year old.'

Neville couldn't speak. He wanted to say so much, to tell her how much he loved her, how much she meant to him, but his throat was dry.

'Don't worry, Neville,' Alice said soothingly. 'I know.'

It felt strange to hear her speak his name, yet wonderful. It sounded like everything he had ever wanted. Since he was a small boy, he had craved a chance to speak to his mother properly, and now it was here. He felt a small tear winding it's way down his cheek.

'Don't cry,' she said. 'I just want to tell you how much I love you; how much I've always loved you. Oh Neville, I'm so proud of everything you've done. I want to apologise for not being there for you. I'm so very sorry, but I hope you understand why I fought, and you'll forgive me for it.'

Neville forced himself to swallow the large lump in his throat.

'Of course I forgive you,' Neville said hoarsely. 'I understand why you fought, and Mum, I'm so proud of you and Dad. You're such a wonderful role model for me; I doubt I'd have done half the things I did if it hadn't been for you.'

Alice said nothing, she simply smiled at him. He could see ghostly tears cascading down her face.

'I love you so much, Mum.'

'I love you too, Neville. I don't have much time, but I want you to know that. I've never stopped loving you, and that I'll be waiting on the other side for you. You must promise me to live a fully and happy life. Promise me that.'

'I promise,' Neville said. She looked as if she was fading, but he didn't want her to go. He took a step forward and reached for her, and it was this that finally seemed to break the spell. There was a ripple of air and the ghost of Alice Longbottom vanished.****


	7. A Halloween Surprise

**_Two more from Mugglenet, from the same challenge. 'Write a drabble in which one character who died in the books comes back to speak with someone they left behind.'_**

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George Weasley sighed in exhaustion as he flopped down onto the rickety wooden chair that stood next to the counter. Halloween was always one of their busiest nights of the year, and even though they had stayed open an extra two hours to accommodate the crowds, he and Ron had practically had to drag the last few children out of the shop.

Thinking he should probably lock up, he flicked his wand lazily in the direction of the door, and, with a loud bang, several boxes of Gangreen Gauges came shooting off the shelves. He grinned to himself sheepishly before aiming his wand more carefully. This time, the locks clicked smoothly together.

He went to direct his wand at the mess on the floor, but let his arm fall back into his lap.

'Ah, I'll do that tomorrow,' he said to himself.

'Atta boy, Georgie, mate.'

George span around, nearly falling off his chair. He knew that voice, it was a mirror of his own, but surely… it couldn't be.

Yet, it was. There, lingering in front of a shelf of the old favourites, Skiving Snackboxes, was Fred. Pearly and transparent, he was clearly a ghost, but he wore the same old smile, and the way that he was casually leaning against the display behind him was just so… Fred.

'What? _Fred?_' George said, getting off his chair and stumbling forwards. 'But how come you're here? You're not a ghost, well, not usually!' George was aware just how ridiculous he sounded, but, really, the situation in itself was rather ridiculous. Was he dreaming? Had the rush of the day finally taken its toll on him?

'Well, no, I'm not,' Fred said with a grin. 'I had to pull a few strings to get here, and it will only be for a few minutes.'

'And why are you here?' George asked.

'I came to see you,' Fred said simply.

There was silence, during which George continued to stare, almost aghast, at his twin's ghost. He looked just like George remembered him, yet there was something different…

'You're older!' he exclaimed! 'You look my age!'

'Well of course,' Fred said with a grin. 'I wasn't going to come back and have us not be identical. We can't have people telling us apart!'

'But how'd you do that?'

'Like I said, I had to pull a few strings.' He moved away from where he had been standing, to another section of the shop, looking around him with an appreciative look on her face. 'Business is going well then, I see. These look good.' He had paused to examine a set of large boxes.

'Oh yeah, Removable Rain Storms. Ron came up with that particular idea.'

'Ron?' Fred said. 'Well, it's good to know he's finally proving his worth.'

'I've missed you,' George said in a quiet voice. Fred stopped examining the merchandise and turned to face his twin, his expression now serious.

'Yeah, I've missed you too.'

There was a loud bang from outside, and a bright flash of red and green light.

'Oops, I've got to dash off now,' Fred said, his head jerking towards the window. 'I wish I could come down and talk to you more often, but you know, this isn't a rule I can easily break. Plus,' he added in a more serious tone, 'I'll see you again properly, one day.'

'Yeah,' George said he bit his lip. He wanted to say more, to tell Fred just how hard the years had been without him, how he never felt quite whole any more, how he had cried himself to sleep nearly every night for near on two years, but he couldn't quite find the right words. 'You were my best friend,' he said eventually. 'Life hasn't been the same without you. I love you, you know.'

'I know,' Fred said with a softer, more wistful grin. 'I miss you too. I really wish I could stay, but I have to go. You know, I'll see you again, George.'

'Goodbye, Fred,' George said.

'Bye, George,' Fred replied with a wave. His eyes looked duller for a moment, but then they flashed brighter once more. 'Oh, and Angelina? Nice catch.'

Fred grinned at his twin and winked, before there was another flash of blinding light. When George looked once more, Fred was gone.


	8. Ghosts

Dennis is curled up in a seat in the Quidditch Stadium, his knees tucked under his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs. He's shivering; there is a fierce October wind rippling around the stands and the flags above his head are flying proudly, whipped up by the breeze. He doesn't know why he's here; Colin was never really interested in Quidditch, though he cheered along with the rest of them at the right moments and commiserated with the team when they lost.

No, for some reason, Dennis just feels _right_ here. He feels calm, though he can't quite seem to collect all of his thoughts; a common occurrence these days. No matter how hard he tries, he can never sort properly thought everything in his head. He just knows that here, he can remember Colin. Maybe it's because it's so high up here, so close to the unfathomably wide sky that is today blanketed in bleak, greyish clouds, and Dennis childishly associates the dead with being in the sky.

Maybe because here, there are no ghosts. The castle is full of painful memories, all of them imagined because neither he nor Colin were at school last year. He hurries along the corridors now. He can't bear to look closely at them, in his mind he wonders if this is where Colin finally fell. The fact that Colin might have died outside doesn't occur to him, and so the Quidditch pitch feels untouched by the horrors of last year and the final battle that ended it all. Of course, it's ridiculous because Dennis wasn't there. For all he knows there was a ferocious and deadly battle on the soft grass beneath the hoops that mirrored the benign ones that occur here in the air.

Maybe he comes here because this is the last place he can imagine Colin being really happy.

Dennis stands up and resolves that this year, he'll try out for the house team. Maybe when he's soaring high in the air beneath the clouds, he'll be able to remember his brother without fear and violence.


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